


This Is Just To Say

by cristianoronaldo



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 05:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3639270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cristianoronaldo/pseuds/cristianoronaldo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>separation anxiety, travel, italy. I don't know how else to sum this up without spoiling everything. Left somewhat unfinished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Just To Say

**Author's Note:**

> as usual, let me know what you like, what you hate, etc. long comments are always welcome but never necessary.  
> playlist for this in the end notes 
> 
> not sure if the italics will copy over into this format and it will make me sad if they don't because i feel like they add to the story, so if you find things you feel should be italicized but are not, don't immediately think i'm an idiot. let's blame it on the format.
> 
> **TITLE: allusion to a poem of the same name. check it out bc it's amazing

The new station was much quieter. Just bustling families and young couples latching sunglasses onto the fronts of their t-shirts and old grandparents hobbling around with straw hats. La Spezia had been slightly louder and the stop before that was all noise and no peace; people everywhere trying to help with luggage, shouting and shouting that they were only trying to help you, and maybe you could spare a little change for someone who had carried your luggage? They were very insistent, helpful, loud. 

 

Gareth ambled along slowly, exhausted after sleeping little on the train and even less on the plane before that. It had been two straight days of travel, from plane to train and walking in between, and though Cristiano could travel quickly, efficiently, and painlessly, Gareth was not quite sure he was up to snuff in that department when it had nothing to do with business. 

 

“You want a paper?” Cristiano gestured to the stand in front of them. Pink and white and tan paper flapped in the wind, and the man behind it eyed them suspiciously. He had large sunglasses propped up on his forehead. 

 

Gareth thought about it for a second. He put his hands in his pockets. “ _Edicola_ ,” he said after a moment. 

 

“Yes,” Cristiano replied patiently. “But do you want to buy something from your new vocabulary word? Or can we continue?” 

 

He shrugged. “We can get one when we arrive, can’t we?” 

 

“Of course.” 

 

And they continued on, walking through the small, quiet station until they arrived. There was a breath, a moment before they stepped outside, and Gareth’s heart was beating furiously in his chest. He’d been traveling through Italy by train for a whole day straight, and he’d gotten sick of the half-glimpses. He was going out of his mind for the real thing. 

 

Finally they stepped out, and the breeze was playing a cruel game, taunting and teasing, pulling at his light jacket and disappearing the moment he learned to love it. There was the station and then a cliff. It dropped straight down at a dizzying pace. The whole sky was open; the earth was wanting. The wind made everything exist with a startling consistency. Nothing and everything felt like a dream. 

 

Gareth wanted to stand there and stare at the way the ocean kissed the sky, but Cristiano was tugging his hand in that amused but impatient way he had. There was a string of locals nearby, waiting outside the little shop with a deck of cards. One of them had a cigarette. He smoked and watched them carefully. 

 

“Come on. I’ll show you around later, alright?” 

 

“Okay,” he said reluctantly, and he tore himself away. They walked up and up and up until their legs ached from climbing the steep stairs and their arms were bruised from struggling with luggage. It was a tiny village on the Italian Riviera, too small and steep for cars, tucked away from the busier Vernazza. Steep and quiet and beautiful. 

 

They stopped in front of a green door with a little blue ceramic tile above the doorframe. The apartment was comfortable, smelled of dust and the sea. The windows opened out like doors to the balcony, and they were staring down at the street leading to the ocean. There was road and then there was sea, no gradual decline, no _sabbia_ , just rocks and water breaking against them. The whole place smelled of it, as if one day the water had crept up, perhaps during a storm, and overwhelmed everything. 

 

There was an upstairs to the apartment with the bathroom and another bed and a short dark hallway with a narrow window. Back down the smooth wooden stairs. Gareth ran his fingers over the closet door. Tissues, blankets, towels, a bucket full of clothespins. The kitchen was tiny; the refrigerator was empty. The pots and pans were shiny and unused for ages. Another bed in front of a TV, and this was the bed right in front of those window-doors. 

 

The balcony was more like a patio with a table and a line waiting for clothes. They could see their neighbors if they leaned their heads around. They did, and no one appeared. There was a trickle of people heading for the rocks below, but there wasn’t much of a crowd, and Gareth breathed a sigh of relief. Peace and solitude and this place. He wanted to close his eyes. The sun bled through his eyelids. 

 

Cristiano came up behind him and placed a foreign-feeling hand on his shoulder. “Dinner? I don’t think we’ve had a proper meal since the plane, if you’d even call that a proper meal.” 

 

Gareth laughed under his breath. “I wouldn’t,” he said, a moment too late. Cristiano was just starting to turn away. “And I would. Like dinner, I mean.” 

 

He nodded. “Good. Tomorrow morning we’ll go to the market, and then we can cook for ourselves while we’re here. We won’t have to go out every night.” 

 

“Okay.” 

 

Everything was disjointed, but it wasn’t rushed. They were there mainly for Cristiano’s photography conference. It was a small but prestigious gathering of his peers. There would be journalists and authors and photographers, people from all over the world, brought together under the roof of one village to talk about beauty. It was a nice concept. But these things normally ate up all of Cristiano’s time. He was devoted to his work, obsessed in a way that made him perfect but not healthy, diseased in his communication with others. He spent too much time analyzing and solving and too little time pausing, showing. 

 

They went out for dinner that night, and it was the first time they smiled together in a long time. The cobblestones did that to a person. Walking across them in the middle of the night, hearing the sounds of tripping laughter and glasses clinking together. People were walking by with gelato spoons hanging from their mouths, vitriolic orange and electric blue and jolting green disappearing behind tongues and smiles and reappearing in a mound of Tiramisu or Pistacchio or _Vaniglia_. 

 

“There’s something about the way things taste here,” he said thoughtfully, after their dishes had been cleared away. The breeze was at it again. He was beginning to fall in love with its inconstant nature. “It’s different. Everything back home tastes like a chore and everything here tastes like it should.” 

 

“And what should things taste like?” 

 

Gareth didn’t answer right away. There was a longing in him for a people and a place that was right in front of his eyes, and later he was reminded of this. After he had shrugged delicately and said, “I don’t know” like the conversation didn’t matter, after they had stumbled over the cobblestones and tripped up the rows and rows of stairs, after they had stopped in front of their little green door and wasted time in the kitchen exploring the drawers, they finally went to bed and fucked like they couldn’t feel each other. It was a nasty habit they’d gotten into. 

 

And after, Cristiano was the one who could look at the man beside him and not have to drop his gaze, but Gareth had to look away. There was a terrible sort of shame brewing in his heart that he either could not explain or couldn’t bring himself to explain, but either way, he was staying silent and his shame wasn’t small anymore. 

 

“Why can’t you look at me?” 

 

The sheets rustled. “Because when I do, you see all of it.” How he felt would be apparent in his eyes. He could shield himself through words and, to a certain extent, through actions, but when it came to the way they looked at each other, there was nowhere to hide. He felt defenseless and watched, open and suspicious. 

 

“So? You see how I look at you.” A pause, then something calm, nothing like a demand. “Look at me.” 

 

So he did and the defenses slipped away. He had this image of Achilles, fighting like a god in the presence of humans, slaughtering one after another, so quickly there was barely blood on his hands. He felt immortal. He felt indecent. There was one chink in his armor, and Paris found it. Only one chink: ankle or eyes. They really weren’t so different. 

 

“You look at me like you long for me.” 

 

And it was such a strange way of saying it, because anyone else would have said-- You look sad. You look tired. You look unhappy. But Cristiano had to brush his fingers against Gareth’s jaw and say that word: long. What was it, really, to long for someone? Was it to miss them when they were far away? Or did the word imply something unattainable, some unreachable summit, some neverending misery? 

 

+ 

 

This is how it goes: the village on the Italian Riviera-- the name floating off his tongue, elegantly disgraced by his accent-- was the very heart of everything good and lovely in this world. It was quiet and peaceful, and misunderstandings seemed smaller under the paradisiacal light. The ocean looked as though it could swallow them all, and when he took the small, ambling train to the nearby village -- nearly empty, wide open and searing-- for once the world wasn’t pressing in. He didn’t have to think about his suit or his phone calls or everything about life that was boring and meaningless and so unfit for the pages of a book chock full of feeling. He was in love with the land, and he wanted it to be his. This is the flawed nature of man: to love is to possess is to destroy. If you love something, let it be. 

 

This is how it continues: he took the small, ambling train back to the village with their small apartment, and he brought his laptop and his cellphone to a table outside a cafe. He patiently took his calls despite the feedback and answered his emails despite the slow wifi. Money was at his fingertips. It was so easy to take it all in his fists and demand more. He was battling his nature. 

 

He returned to the apartment with his laptop tucked under his arm. Cristiano was sitting on the patio overlooking the ocean, camera beside him. Without looking up, he spoke about a job offer. There was no hesitation in his eyes-- the decision was made-- only an increase in speed when he said _Firenze_ , eyes shiny with desire. 

 

“It’s permanent,” he said. “Things change so rapidly, especially in this line of work. I need something I can depend on, and they want me. Wouldn’t you choose this too?” 

 

“Yes,” he said patiently. He walked over to the railing and watched the ocean overpower the rocks. “Yes, of course I would.” 

 

Cristiano, being Cristiano, had plans all prepared. This was one aspect of him that Gareth would never be able to understand: how he could be so firmly rooted in both dreams and reality. 

 

“You’ll fly over all the time. You travel for work anyway, so you won’t mind flying, will you? Otherwise I can fly back to London to see you.” 

 

“Yes,” he said again. He was struggling to contain it all. _You are mine_ , he wanted to say. _You are mine and no one else’s, and you can’t move away from me. You can’t leave me because then I will miss you, and I will wonder what it is_ to be _. I will not understand my existence, and I will long for you in all the ways there are to long for someone._

 

“So you will come to see me.” 

 

“Of course I will come to see you.” 

 

It was all very robotic and rusty. Both of them wanted to say more, and they knew they wanted to say more, and they knew there was more that needed to be said, but they remained quiet. Gareth was battling his desire to own, to control, to be the half that makes someone complete. And Cristiano was battling his soul: traveling to new depths and new heights and wanting so badly not to conquer but to taste victory in every step. He wanted to be more in his simple existence, defining beauty and discovering it, not trapping life in those photographs but freeing it. 

 

Finally, he mustered up the strength to do what made everything painful. _Is this what it feels like to surrender?_ “You do what makes you happy.” 

 

He knew that Cristiano’s happiness should mean the most to him, and he was going to _make it_ mean the most to him. 

 

(I love you, but I do not love you well. Like the ocean breaks the rocks. Or is it the other way around?) 

 

“I will,” he said. He did not say _You make me happy so come closer one last time_. It would not be the last time, so there was no need for such frivolous feeling. 

 

+ 

 

Gareth lost track of the next few days. They didn’t have much longer, as Cristiano’s conference was ending soon. Gareth spent the days alone while Cristiano sat in a dark room discovering new eyes he had within himself or standing on a cliff with his camera and thirty other photographers, peering at some bit of the ground and talking about angles. 

 

Gareth took trains to the other villages, the _terre_ , with a surprising amount of ease for someone who was slowly and unsteadily learning the language. He struggled through buying tickets but once he had the slip of paper in his hands, he didn’t make many mistakes getting on and off the trains. He never accidentally shipped himself back to La Spezia, so even when he did make mistakes, he was happy not to make that one. 

 

Everything was a dream. He traveled so quietly he stopped thinking of himself as something real. He felt like a ghost, invisible and lifeless, made of the wind and the sparks the train made as it skidded against the rails. It was like when they were back home in London and Gareth would travel for work. He felt quiet and dull on his own, during his meetings in Singapore, New York, Manchester, Cardiff, Madrid, and the list went on and on and on. It was all the same. He was the same suit in every city. 

 

But when he returned home, there was something about that other man’s lips that traced life back into his own. Greed, Hunger, Want, Hate-- all in the name of money-- disappeared under his touch, and new sins ate at Gareth’s brain: Greed for the other man, Hunger for his attention, Want for his lips, Hatred for those that stood in his way. 

 

He remembered those very first nights. He had thought that feeling might change, but it had only grown stronger. Cristiano would not be _had_ and he would not _have_ anyone else. They were equals, which was beautiful to think about, but there was something in Gareth’s blood that had not quite finished obsessing over the concept of ownership. He wanted so badly to fall into a relationship, to let that take him over, and to take over the one he loved-- but this was not love, and with these desires, he either perfectly represented a modern man or shouldn’t even be graced with the label Human. 

 

He returned very late one of their last few nights there. Cristiano normally stayed out later, exploring the village and speaking to the few who actually lived there, asking about their lives and their behavior in perfect, polite Italian, inquiring about Florence, the dialects, the food. He knew Riomaggiore not as tourists knew it but as Rimazùu with the buildings that bled color, the most beautiful of all beauties. He loved places more than he could ever love people. 

 

“Enjoy yourself?” 

 

“You wouldn’t believe what I learned about dialects today.” He was standing near the sink, slicing the tomatoes Gareth had picked up from the market. “I mean.” He paused, trying to phrase it in a way Gareth would understand. “You know how each city you travel to is different, has a different taste, a different feel? You know? In Rome, there’s the filth of it all in your bones, and you love it because it’s _Rome_ , not as the tourists see it, but as you live it. Or beautiful, pure Assisi. Nightmarish Siena. Every city...” He trailed off helplessly, giving up on the food. 

 

Gareth smiled as he took over chopping the tomatoes. “I suppose. But in the end, I just want to be home. I mean, put it this way, New York is beautiful but it’s unfriendly. London is beautiful and unfriendly, but it’s the sort of unfriendly that I understand.” 

 

“But isn’t that the beauty of it? Going somewhere and learning how to understand it?” He waited for Gareth to agree, and when he simply shrugged, Cristiano shook his head. “Alright, anyway, that wasn’t the point. I was talking about dialects. They’re like cities that way. Every city has a completely different character. Every dialect represents a people in a way you wouldn’t even believe.” 

 

Gareth shrugged again, fixing their plates, grateful that he had bought himself gelato in Corniglia because it seemed like one of those nights that Cristiano would talk and talk and talk through, speaking so carefully and happily that Gareth couldn’t do anything but laugh and watch and beg for more.

 

But, “Isn’t it just speaking?” 

 

“Isn’t it just speaking,” Cristiano repeated, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You can degrade anything that way, break it down to its smallest parts. Speaking is speaking. Listening is listening. Seeing is seeing. Eating is eating. Living is living. But take one of those away, and you understand what you once had. If it’s just speaking, why do you feel so out of place the places you go? Why do you notice your accent so much? Why do you want to learn Italian so badly?... if it’s just speaking.” 

 

Gareth set the plates on the table and stared at Cristiano a moment longer. “Alright,” he said. “You’re right, as usual. But you don’t have to completely break me down to prove it.” 

 

“You’re not broken down. You’re perfectly complete.” 

 

They looked at each other, and then Cristiano had to look away. “Outside?” he said, raising his plate. 

 

“Sure.” 

 

Then outside, they were looking down at the street that spilled into the ocean, and Gareth shook his head. “In a few days, I’m going to be on a plane to London.” 

 

And it was such a terrible feeling to know that this wasn’t forever, that there was misery beyond this pleasure. That normal life would come to claim him. This place was so beautiful he never wanted to leave. It wasn’t just pretty to look at it; it was pretty to feel. It was the sort of eternity the wind breathed and the ocean echoed and the streets sang musically back. 

 

“And in a few days, I’m going to be on a train to Florence.” 

 

Startled, he said, “I-- I thought we talked about you coming back to London to pack up.” His voice was thin, light; his throat was on fire. The streets were singing, the ocean was echoing, the wind was breathing, but his head was back in London. 

 

He put his fork down. “I thought that might be too difficult.” 

 

“I don’t think the difficult part is going to be watching you pack up. I think the difficult part will be all the moments after.” 

 

He closed his eyes briefly. “Don’t ask me not to take this job.” 

 

“Would it make a difference if I did?” 

 

Cristiano looked at him with a foreign gaze. “Would you really ask that of me?” 

 

“I would not. Because if you did stay, you wouldn’t be able to look at me, and I wouldn’t be able to look at myself.” He paused, thinking that they must be the only pocket of hell in paradise. “But you wouldn’t stay, and I don’t want to think about what that means.” 

 

Cristiano’s eyes hardened into little amber beads. “It means I’m my own person. It means I can’t live for someone else. It means I have worked hard for everything I have, and I’m not going to throw it all away. I can’t depend on you--” 

 

“You could--” 

 

“I don’t care,” he snapped, sitting up straight. His eyes were flashing dangerously. “I don’t care that you’re rich. I don’t care that you could and _would_ take care of me. I want to take care of myself.” 

 

“Cristiano, I--” 

 

“I don’t care,” he repeated. “Sometimes I don’t care that I love you.” 

 

Gareth shut his mouth. He looked away. 

 

Neither of them went back to eating. Cristiano, ashamed of his outburst but adamant that he was right, stared at the table, then his hands, then the ocean, and finally Gareth, waiting for him to speak. 

 

“In a few days,” he said, “You’ll be on a train to Florence.” 

 

Cristiano was silent for a moment longer, pain breaking into his eyes. Clearing it, he swallowed. “You’ll send my stuff over?” 

 

“Yes, just tell me what you need, and I’ll make it happen.” 

 

“And you’ll visit?” 

 

He looked away. “Of course I’ll visit. It’s terrible being away from you.” 

 

“Just think of it as a business trip.” 

 

“I can’t think of my whole life as temporary,” he murmured, but the moment he said it, he wished he could take it back. Wished he could say what he had wanted to say earlier, that-- And then it was spilling from his lips because they only had a few days, and days quickly turned into hours, then minutes, then seconds, and then he was gone. He was already gone-- 

 

“I love you,” he said. “But I do not love you well.” 

 

Cristiano picked up his fork, scooted his chair in. “But you will.” 

 

+ 

 

The last few days were meaningless, as final days often are. They tried to make those days mean more than all the previous ones put together, and they failed miserably. They fought over coffee, over where to eat breakfast and lunch, over what to cook for dinner. They fought over what to do in their free time, what time they should catch a train to Florence, whether Gareth should accompany him to Florence, whether... and it went on and on. The arguments were senseless. 

 

They finally decided that they would travel to Florence together. Cristiano would take his own train deeper into the city, and Gareth would fly out of Florence to Heathrow. It was a simple decision, and it made the most sense, but it took them ages to reach that decision. 

 

They were angry and confused; Cristiano wanted to live for himself, wanted to be proud of himself; he didn’t grow up with much, but he grew up with the knowledge that, if he wanted to be successful in life, he would have to do it himself. He couldn’t take favors or handouts because they were lies and traps. He had to create himself, and so whenever Gareth offered to make his life a little easier, he took it as an attack on his ability and autonomy. Sometimes they didn’t speak for days. 

 

But not speaking for days was a privilege. You’re lucky if you can refuse to speak to the person you love, if you can ignore their calls or hang up on them or tell them to go fuck themselves and slam a door in their face with the expectation that they will be waiting for you on the other side of your anger. But in a train station with the noise and the people and the memory of paradise, staring at the person you love, you would not slam a single door if you knew one of those trains was going to take them away from you. 

 

They had argued over coffee that morning, and Cristiano was a stiff but forgiving presence at his side. They bought his ticket and stood at the gate. 

 

As soon as he saw the correct number and the train waiting there, emotion flooded his features, and he turned to Gareth with this expression like something was falling. It was true that he wanted to take care of himself and he needed to be his own person and perhaps it was even true that he needed the job in Florence, but that did not invalidate the depth he had fallen into. 

 

The train was so loud they could both feel it. They weren’t going to see each other for a long time, and they were looking at each other like this was the case. There was a projected distance in their eyes, as if they could sense the sadness that was about to descend on them. Knowing what was to come and understanding their inability to circumnavigate certain obstacles, they stood at the station with the knowledge and the despair that things were not meant to be. But it was obvious from that hopeless sensation that this changed nothing. 

 

“It will be so lonely without you,” Gareth said, trying to smile. He succeeded, and Cristiano’s mouth hardened into a solid line. 

 

“That’s a terrible thing to do.” 

 

“What is?” 

 

“Making me miss you.” 

 

He swallowed and forced another smile. “Get out of here then.” 

 

“I will,” he said, not moving. Then, he removed a small plastic bag from his leather backpack and handed it to Gareth. “You’ll need that.” When the other man made no move to open it, he looked down and said, “It’s a phrase book. To help you learn, you know? Since you’re going to be here again. You’ll be here again. Won’t you?” 

 

“The twelfth,” he said, opening the bag and feeling the cover. He flipped through the glossy pages. Each section was highlighted a different color, and he was immediately reminded of the neon gelato spoons from the paradise he was leaving. 

 

“June?” 

 

“Yes. I’ll send your stuff over this week and--” There was an announcement over the speaker. People were rushing by. The train’s wheels were squeaking, and someone was still trying to stamp their ticket, anxiously checking over his shoulder to make sure the train hadn’t left yet. 

 

“Right, right. I know. Okay.” He checked his ticket one last time. “Goodbye then. I’ll see you soon.” 

 

“Ti voglio bene,” he said carefully, and then he turned away. 

 

He knew he should have been brave and watched the train roll away because that’s what all the movies say to do, but he just kept staring down at his hands, unable to look up and watch the sparks fly up, the wind whistle, recreating the atmosphere for a ghost. 

 

It left, and he felt the weightlessness descend upon him. He walked exhaustedly back to the cab with his suitcase and his backpack, checking every so often to make sure his wallet was still there. He paid the cab and concentrated on working his way through the airport. 

 

He traveled often, so he had the luxury of the VIP lounge and the frequent flyer miles and the first class seats, snacks, and hot towels in the morning. He was comfortable when he was moving; he could sleep easily on a plane. He knew how to interact with the other passengers, and he knew how to tell the uncomfortable travelers from the experienced ones. But his work rarely took him anywhere in Italy besides Rome, and when he was there, he did nothing but work. He did not explore the streets like Cristiano, slinking around like a cat, peering around corners and interacting with locals, trying out different verbs and foods and styles of clothing. He was not adventurous; he did not like to draw attention to the fact that he was a foreigner, an outsider. He spent years feeling like an outsider in London until, finally, one day it had become home. 

 

Now, traveling, these places were just places. He could float around from one to the other. A few places inspired in him a strange sense of relaxation, a peace he couldn’t quite associate with himself even when he was feeling it. Those villages on the Italian Riviera did that to him. For a brief moment in time, he had understood what Cristiano meant about getting to know the place, about being curious, about living to feel something outside of boredom and reality. But the difference was that Cristiano carried that feeling within himself, and Gareth felt it as a result of a place being unique. 

 

He slept on the plane and dreamt of the way Cristiano spoke with the fruit vendor, twirling his finger around and gesturing to different things. He held up a peach, grapes, a single purple fig. He tossed them all down, and the vendor was delighted by him. There was a cool breeze. He was never ever going to leave. He would never have to leave. Nothing could pull him away from that place or that moment. What were they buying all of this for? Surely not for living. 

 

“Sir.” Someone was shaking his shoulder. “I’m sorry, sir. We’ve landed.” 

 

He opened his eyes, looked at her smudged purple eyeliner, and had the peculiar feeling that it should have been June. 

 

+ 

 

It was a long, miserable month and a half. Gareth cleaned out Cristiano’s apartment, spoke to his landlord, apologized to his neighbors and his friends. He felt like he was cleaning up for someone who had made a terrible mistake, but everyone else was thrilled. They refused his apologies, threw their arms around his neck and exclaimed that no one deserved it more. They only hesitated when they asked about Gareth and Cristiano as a couple. 

 

“Are you staying together?” It was his neighbor and the model he often photographed. She had piercing eyes and painful questions, but she meant well. 

 

“Yes,” he said pleasantly. “Yes, we are.” 

 

He dragged box after box to the van waiting outside, thanked the women driving it, and traipsed back up the stairs to stare at the empty place once more. He had already cleared all belongings out of his own house, except a few things he hoped Cristiano would not miss. A white t-shirt, a comfortable pair of boxers that really they shared anyway, a purple pair of socks, and an extra bottle of his cologne. It smelled terrible on Gareth, but it did wonders for the empty pillow beside him. 

 

He was angry and tired, confused and insecure. He didn’t know what this separation meant for them; he didn’t want to speak less and less and then wake up one morning and realize that their I love yous were still out in the open but they hardly spoke. He didn’t want anyone else coming between them. This was how he defined love: I am yours and you are mine. It was still all about ownership, still nothing to do with freedom. 

 

Rather than withdrawing from his friends and family, he devoted more time to them. He was trying to distract himself from the distance, but every breath felt like a number-- counting the miles every single second of every single day. He was fighting himself; he knew he was wrong. He knew love shouldn’t be about what he could hold firmly in two hands, and he was trying to prove that to those around him-- and somehow prove this to himself. 

 

Luka, unfortunately, could see right through this. He was, as sidekicks tend to be, charming, adorable, loyal to a fault. 

 

“You’ve been unhappy since he left.” 

 

Gareth picked the pickles off his sandwich with a frown. He briefly pictured himself running back into the restaurant and throwing the plate down, kicking out at something, perhaps ripping a plastic menu in two. But that would be ridiculous. He took a deep breath. 

 

“Didn’t you ask for no pickles?” 

 

One, Two, Three. He shrugged. “They’re easy to pick off.” 

 

Luka shrugged. “Anyway.” He bounced on his plastic seat. “I was saying something about you being unhappy.” 

 

“Yes.” He paused. “Are you surprised?” 

 

“No, but then again, I never can figure you out.” 

 

“You’ve known me practically my entire life, Luka,” he said with a laugh. He stole a fry from his friend’s plate as if to prove this. 

 

“Yes, well. That doesn’t mean you don’t confuse me sometimes.” He propped his chin up with his hand. “I just know you’ve got this war raging in your head. I know that this isn’t what you want. But he’s what you want. So you hate the situation, but you can’t get yourself out of it without losing him. So you’re miserable.” 

 

He forced himself to smile. “And you say you don’t understand me?” 

 

Luka cracked a smile too. “But you’re okay?” 

 

“Course I’m okay. I’m always okay.” 

 

Luka frowned. “That makes me worry about you even more.” 

 

But Gareth just shrugged again. “Do you guys have a summer trip planned? Croatia again?” 

 

He shook his head. “Client in Madrid, so I figured when I’m in meetings, Vanja could take the kids around to see the sights. To be honest, I thought you were going to take the Madrid case.” 

 

“No. I’m taking a few days off in June to visit --” With some difficulty: “Florence. I spoke with Florentino about it, and we agreed you would be the best choice. My clients in Madrid already know you because of our work together. Where are you staying? Are you--” 

 

“Please don’t ramble about work. You give me migraines. Please tell me you’re doing something besides working and pining?” 

 

“Work is busy,” Gareth returned, sliding the pickles farther across the plate. He was already agitated, and pickles were agitating him even more, not because of the mistake the waiter had made but because they were pickles and he hated pickles. Fuck pickles. They were -- And it really wasn’t about them at all. One. Two. Three. Four. 

 

“And pining takes a lot of effort.” Luka reached across the table and stole the pickles. “You really have to sort through your issues, you know.” 

 

“Just because I miss my-- him.” He hesitated. “Doesn’t mean I have issues.” 

 

Luka smiled pleasantly. “Right. You just keep counting in your head. Let me know when the explosion occurs. I’d like to be there to witness that.” 

 

Much later, Gareth was lying in bed one night thinking, _what is touch? What does it mean to feel?_ Ridiculous questions that would never plague him on a normal day at a normal hour when people with normal minds were awake. But now it was just -- _Is he just as real if I cannot trace his lips? Or is there something in my touch that transforms dreams into reality_? But these are things only lonely people think. Kings never have to ponder the existence of their subjects. 

 

He shut his eyes. They were at a train station all over again, and the train was so loud he could feel it. And he was saying goodbye, but he didn’t want to say goodbye, and it wasn’t one of those dreams where suddenly a clown appeared or everything was soaked with blood-- nothing clearly out of the ordinary -- but he was looking at the green and purple signs of the station, the windows and the doors, the people with faces he never knew he knew, and he had the strangest sensation that nothing was as it should have been, that some nightmarish sight would have been less out of place than he. 

 

+

 

There were numerous phone calls between them. Most times they laughed and joked around, and this virtual image of Cristiano pressing his fingers to the camera and squeezing his eyes shut, caught up in a smile-- this was the image he wanted to protect and remember, but the reality of the situation was this: that distance was too much. There can be an overwhelming sea of emotion, but distance makes things foolish. You love someone very far away? What’s wrong with you? 

 

This was the refrain stuck in his mind. At all hours of night, it was shame and embarrassment-- left alone, forcing himself not to speak of his pain for fear of waking something within himself, some long-hidden desire for control. And control, if unchecked, was unbearable, breeding unspeakable evils and encouraging despicable acts. This was what Cristiano was trying to avoid. He would rather be alone than someone’s toy. 

 

+ 

 

 

The first time he went to visit Cristiano in Florence, Cristiano showed him around the city early in the morning; it was a heaven-sent mist. His apartment was around the corner from il Duomo. If they leaned their heads out the window, there it was, looming up up up over everything. The shining Gates, the colors that made him dizzy. 

 

It was in the hot summer, so people pressed in around them-- tourist season-- smelling of sweat and candy and cappuccino they were drinking at the wrong time of day. Gareth’s Italian was getting better; he still couldn’t conjugate under pressure and, embarrassed, he didn’t practice with Cristiano, let him believe that he was not as eager to learn anymore. 

 

“Isn’t it beautiful,” he muttered in Gareth’s ear. “Isn’t it just the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” 

 

It was a building. It wasn’t anything like the seaside village that kept him from ordinary life. That was paradise; this was a slightly better reality. It was a building. 

 

“It’s lovely.” 

 

“You want to hear something interesting about it?” 

 

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me no matter what I say.” 

 

“There’s a man who’s building a replica of the dome in order to better understand how it was created. Because it was built with such genius that, even years and years later, people want to know. They want to get inside his mind and understand what he was thinking, what he was doing, how he moved his hands, and how his brain worked. It’s extraordinary. Just look at it.” 

 

It was a building. “I’m looking.” 

 

“You’re not.” 

 

“I’m looking at this building,” he said patiently. 

 

Cristiano’s expression soured. “You don’t ever really look at things.” 

 

A group of Americans were hovering at Gareth’s shoulder and shouting about the history of it. Dates, a gap of years, an artist’s name, a purpose-- the blood and bones of a building. The tourists had green cords around their necks, traveling up to coil in their ears: headphones. And their tour guide up ahead, shouting into his own device. 

 

“To your left, you will see...” 

 

Gareth was disoriented. Too many people, too much sun. Someone kept brushing against his side, and he was terrified of being pickpocketed. “I do look at things.” 

 

“To your right, you will see...” 

 

“Tell me how this isn’t genius then.” 

 

“It’s genius,” he said exhaustedly. 

 

The tour guide had a thick French accent. “...and you will remember, like we saw. In Paris.” His voice was drifting in and out. The crowd was suffocating. “Stay in pairs....meet me back here...in...” He squinted at his watch, relayed a time Gareth couldn’t quite catch. The group split. 

 

Finally, Cristiano pulled Gareth away, and they made their way over to the side of the street, the little stalls set up selling paintings. Watercolor. Bright and mild, realistic and garish, ordinary and fantastical. The man was painting another right in front of them. 

 

“I just wonder sometimes,” Gareth said politely, not looking at Cristiano, “If you’ve ever let someone disagree with you without biting their goddamn head off.” 

 

He bent down to examine the paintings before Cristiano could respond. He addressed the man at the stall instead. “Mi piace...questo...questa pittura. Quanto costo?” 

 

“Otto euro,” he said cheerfully. Then, “English?” 

 

He was fighting his wallet. “La lingua or la nazione?” 

 

The old man shot him a wide, searing smile, and Gareth immediately hated himself for not loving every inch of the city. In that smile was the dust from construction right outside Cristiano’s apartment and the sight of the Duomo, grand and mysterious, and the way the traffic whistled musically and terrifyingly by. 

 

He accepted Gareth’s money and handed him the painting. “You... from America?” 

 

“No, no,” he said shaking his head. “Welsh. Wales. I’m from--” 

 

There was a group waiting in line behind him, and the man looked confused. He nodded, confessed to being American to make things simpler, and he and Cristiano went on their way. 

 

“You shouldn’t buy things from them,” Cristiano said after awhile. They were past the Duomo. “From the street vendors.” 

 

“Why not? He was nice. I want this for my office.” 

 

“They’re ripping you off.” 

 

“He was painting it right in front of me. And it was only eight euro.” 

 

Cristiano looked at him for a moment and then looked away. “How much did you give him?” There was something in his voice. He was about to prove himself correct. 

 

“Twenty, and he gave me--” 

 

“Two,” Cristiano said self-importantly. “He distracted you by asking you something about yourself. If you were someone else, he would have complimented your eyes, your hat, your hair, or asked your favorite thing about the city. He was distracting you.” 

 

Gareth’s eyes hardened. “He noticed my accent and my horrible Italian. It was an honest mistake.” 

 

“Eighteen euro for that tiny thing. Incredible.” He looked ecstatic. 

 

Gareth pushed the tiny parcel into his bag and followed Cristiano as they wove their way through the throngs of people. The sun was beating down on his back, and he could just feel his skin sizzling. It wasn’t like the sun back home; it was closer and more blistering, more hellbent on burning its presence into everything it touched. 

 

“Now,” Cristiano said, as they found a quieter street. He paused and let Gareth catch up so they were walking side by side. “If you had wanted to buy something and told me you wanted to buy something--” 

 

“You could have told me he was giving me the wrong change,” he cut in furiously. “You wanted to prove me wrong so bad that you lost me eighteen euro.” 

 

“Ten,” he corrected. “You were going to waste the eight all on your own.” 

 

“Fine,” Gareth said, gritting his teeth. “Ten. Ten. The fucking ten euro. You could have told me about it instead of letting me walk away like a fool.” 

 

“It’s okay,” he said, pausing in front of GROM. The line was enormous, and he looked at it, narrowing his eyes, trying to decide whether it was worth it or not. “All the other tourists walk away like fools too, if that makes you feel better.” 

 

“Why would that make me feel better? What would make me feel better,” he said, lowering his voice, “Is if you would stop acting like we’re on opposite sides.” 

 

Cristiano half-smiled; it was his evil, superior half-smile. “I don’t let people disagree with me, remember? Not without-- what was it?-- biting their goddamn head off?” 

 

Gareth counted to three in his head. That was as far as he could make it before-- “You know you’re just proving my point, right?” 

 

Cristiano was still staring at the line. He waited a moment. “Gelato?” 

 

“I don’t feel like it.” 

 

“Why not?” 

 

“Because.” 

 

“Because why?” 

 

He pressed his knuckle against the center of his forehead. Counting. One. Two. Three. Four. “Because I don’t fucking want--” Five. Six. Seven. He shut his eyes briefly. “Alright,” he said, “Yes, let’s go.” 

 

Cristiano’s face was entirely blank for a beat, and then he grinned so wide Gareth wanted to take him in his arms and say _you’re mine you’re mine you’re mine. Why am I such a monster around you?_  

 

The inside was well-lit and enormous, made small by the dozens upon dozens of people. He heard English to his left, German somewhere towering above him, a language he couldn’t recognize near his head, and then polite, imploring Italian as Cristiano effortlessly made his way to the front. 

 

“Flavor?” He nudged Gareth. “You like nocciola, don’t you?” 

 

He nodded. “But I’ll try _care-ah-mall-uh_ al sale. Sounds good, doesn’t it?” 

 

Cristiano turned to order, and someone smacked Gareth with her backpack. A girl murmuring her apology first in English and then in sloppy Italian. She blushed, turned again, and hit someone else. He felt as lost as she did, only she was all thin wrists and gaping eyes, knobby knees and embarrassed but fluid tongue. 

 

“Caramello al sale,” Cristiano said triumphantly, shoving the cup in his hands. “And good choice, I think. I’ve been in here maybe three times. Didn’t get anything the first time because that was before I could find a gym to belong to, and then I found one, and then I came back here to try something, and I think I tried their signature flavor. Crema di GROM. Very good. Normally you don’t want to go to the chain gelaterie if you can find a smaller one, but people rave about this place, so I figured might as well try it.” 

 

“It’s good,” he said, smiling despite himself. 

 

They walked a little ways away, and the streets were quiet at first, golden with unfiltered sunlight, and then much louder, hotter, busier, filled with sweat and the stickiness of life. 

 

“One more thing today, and since I know you have to leave early tomorrow for that-- what was it again?” 

 

“Meeting. Clients in Oslo.” 

 

“Right, Oslo. Anyway, we’ll save the museums for next time. But before we head back...” 

 

He trailed off like he was in a trance as he looked up at the buildings for some kind of indication of where to go next. He spun around once, muttering to himself, and then spotted what he was looking for. 

 

“Here,” he said. “It’s down here.” 

 

And then, without any kind of explanation or warning, they charged through the streets, and the farther they walked, the less tourists they saw. Fewer garish fanny packs and large backpacks, more flowing dresses and high heels on uneven ground. Vespas in every color and rapid Italian, spoken like dripping honey and crashing rocks; it was the only way to speak. Every other language left too much unsaid. English was brutal, rough and unorganized, an ugly rock beside the Pietà. 

 

“I want you to fall in love with this city,” he said as he walked. “First as a tourist falls in love with the winding streets and the flags in the wind and the way the locals speak with so much life. Eyes wide open; an obsession with the unseen, the desire to charge through and run your fingers over and ruin words previously un-ruinable. Then, slowly, as someone who knows this place like the palm of his hand.” 

 

But Gareth could already see what this meant-- this is what it meant to be a foreigner: Coming through streets like a native because you’ve been there so long, forever held slightly apart, as if kept away by a thing wire or a tiny glass wall. Because you didn’t grow up with this dirt beneath your toes and because you can learn as much as you want about these politics, but these politics are not your politics, and this government isn’t your government. These streets aren’t your streets. You’re always going to have that accent and that face. 

 

“I don’t fall in love with places,” Gareth said finally, his answer coming far too late. “I just like the feeling of being at home.” 

 

“As if there’s a difference.” 

 

“There is a difference. I love things because-- places. I love _places_ because they’re familiar, because they’re mine. You’re in love with places that can never be yours.” 

 

Cristiano didn’t stop walking, but there was something tense about his shoulders. “I’m in love with home too.” 

 

“But you have no concept of where that is.” The hurt had entered his voice, and he wished he could take it back. 

 

“You think I betray people and places because I’m willing to leave them.” He stopped walking now and turned back. The street was empty, hollow. “Love isn’t about taking things in two hands. It’s about allowing things to be--” 

 

“Stop saying pretty things and just tell me what you mean.” 

 

An exasperated sigh as if _This is the only way I know how to tell you things_. “You think I’m betraying you by leaving you, and I’m not. We’re apart, but that doesn’t mean--” 

 

“And at what point does it start to mean something?” he said, stepping closer. “When we’re five years into treating each other like a vacation? At what point are we supposed to look at our lives and realize they’re headed in different directions? When am I allowed to feel betrayed because we never even had a conversation about this. We were practically living together, and I didn’t even get a say in this.” 

 

“You don’t get a say in it. I get a say in it--” And it was said partly to be cruel, but the malice behind it didn’t negate anything. 

 

Gareth shut his eyes for a second and dropped his hands. He hadn’t realized he was clenching his fists. “I know you. I know you’ll be sad...” _After we break up,_ he thought. _Because that’s what’s going to happen, isn’t it?_ “But you’ll say _so be it_ , because you think life is more than just clinging to one person. But I don’t want to lose you. Sometimes I see your whatever-happens-happens mentality as not giving a shit.” 

 

“And sometimes I see your ultimatums as attempts to conquer.” His eyes were on the verge of being furious, but there was always something vulnerable about his fury-- some corner of his past that, upon looking in his eyes, it was obvious he was dwelling on. His jacket sleeve swayed helplessly in the breeze. 

 

After a moment, he said, “I will not be conquered.” 

 

He could never say anything normally. He could never just say “Stop being so possessive. Stop making me feel like I can’t breathe. Stop making me feel guilty for doing what makes me happy. Stop making me responsible for your every sadness.” No. He never said things like that. He had to say “conquer” like Gareth was striding around in armor, hardened by war; merciless, solemn, strong. 

 

“You can’t treat me like a piece of property.” 

 

And Gareth wanted to say-- I have to break myself down so many times. Don’t do this, Gareth. Don’t do that. Don’t look at him that way because it’s too much. Don’t let him notice that look your eyes like you’re greedy for more than he can give. Don’t let him see that you’re impure. He thinks he’s the one with the demonic past, but you’re the one with a mind straight from hell. People don’t belong to people, but I want you to belong to me. 

 

What he settled on, voice breaking gently: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” And, “I’m trying.” 

 

The fire subsided in Cristiano’s eyes. He didn’t acknowledge the apology. He was too far above it, too far above everything. 

 

They kept walking, the breeze biting far more fiercely now. The air was darker. More people, laughing and walking, young and beautiful and un-mysterious. And it struck Gareth that he had never done this when he was a child. He had never wandered around with his arms around his friends and laughed just for the sake of laughing. He had never just dropped in to get pizza and walked around a piazza or made out with girls and boys down dark alleyways. He had never in his life been a human being, and suddenly the beauty of it all was heartbreaking. 

 

And he was happy when Cristiano turned and stopped and said “We’re here.” 

 

“What’s this? Did someone famous and dead live here?” 

 

Cristiano stepped forward, put his hand on the gold numbers beside the door. 321, an elegant numeric descent. 

 

“Don’t get me wrong. I love where I am now. Being near the duomo...It’s like living near a beating heart. But this place is my dream.” 

 

And logically, Gareth could see how it was a dream. It was tucked away in an authentic Florentine neighborhood. It was nothing like the tourist area with its stink of sweat and Italian phrase books. It was simple and beautiful. The streets surrounding it were picturesque. A flag was hanging from one of the nearby windows: Italy, for the World Cup. It reminded Gareth of a flag hanging from a window in Corniglia; he had wanted to get a picture of it caught in the wind’s trance, but as soon as he began trying, he understood that there were certain things you could not capture in pictures or in film. It was the movement and the presence and the feel of the very same wind on his cheeks that made that moment unique. 

 

“Why aren’t you already living here then?” he asked, ripping his eyes away from the flag. 

 

A woman walked between them, speaking insistently on her phone in rapid, rapid Italian. Gareth could hear her accent: “... _Hasa_ mia,” she was saying, and he heard it over and over again in his head-- _hasa, hasa, hasa_. The way he was taught the language was so ordinary, so plain, so structured and forced. _Casa_ was so unimaginative. The way they spoke it was so lovely. She moved away, bracelets singing. 

 

Cristiano took a step back, and Gareth caught a glint in his eye. It wasn’t greed but love. Another thing he could never understand: how his love could be so pure. It was incorruptible and defiant. Sometimes Gareth wondered if he thought about his past a lot, if maybe that’s why he loved so fiercely, if maybe he was thinking about all those times love meant pain, if maybe he wasn’t trying to fix it all with his actions now. 

 

“It’s extraordinarily expensive,” he said. “Quiet neighborhood. Relatively no crime. Nice view, bookcases included. I took a tour of the room upstairs. There’s a glass table and a view of the street below. A tiny kitchen, like our kitchen in Riomaggiore. There’s a--a...” He trailed off, struggling to find the word, fighting it in Italian, breaking it down to rough English. “A market. A fruit stand down the street. And a little place to eat breakfast. It’s quiet in the mornings. It’s nice. It’s so--” His mouth formed a determined line. “Expensive. I’m going to save up for it. The paper pays well. An advertising agency asked me to get a few shots for them. I’m doing well. I just need to cut back somewhere, and then I can start renting this place.” 

 

Gareth looked at him. “How much is it?” 

 

Cristiano looked away. Normally he just spat out an angry refusal of what he knew would come next, but this time he held his tongue for a moment. And then, with some difficulty, “It’s just a building.” 

 

“It’s not. You love it.” 

 

“I love plenty of things. I love where I am now.” 

 

Cristiano was quiet. He looked at the gold numbers. “No,” he said finally. “I can’t.” But normally it was _I won’t_. 

 

“Well, I’m renting it,” Gareth announced. “You can either leave it empty or stay in it. Your choice.” Cristiano looked angry, so Gareth added, “It’s for your birthday.” 

 

“My birthday isn’t until _February_.” 

 

“Half birthday?” 

 

“Gareth.” 

 

“Fine, early birthday. Or late birthday, depending on how you want to look at it.” 

 

“ _Gareth_.” 

 

“You deserve to be happy. Would you just let me do my part? Would you just let me do something? I can’t see you every day, and every day is painful and pressing on me, and I want you constantly. Just let me pay for a fucking apartment? It will be four minutes of my salary.” 

 

“Probably more like four hours.” 

 

“Oh. Well. If it’s four hours, forget about it.” 

 

Cristiano nearly cracked a smile. He adjusted his collar. “I didn’t take you here for this purpose. I just wanted you to see it.” 

 

“I know. You never ask for anything. I think I’ve grasped, by now, that you don’t just want me for my money.” 

 

Cristiano smirked. He felt for his camera. “Only because that’s what I want you to think.” 

 

Later, Cristiano was mouthing at his back. Gareth was somewhere between pain and pleasure, seeing bright spots where there was only darkness. He wanted to say _I cannot possibly imagine why you love me, but I know this: you do._  

 

He didn’t want to wake Cristiano up in the morning, and he didn’t have to. He was already awake, making coffee in his boxers, hair sticking up, stubborn and unruly. 

 

“What,” he said sleepily when Gareth ran his fingers through it. 

 

“Nothing. I’ll miss you, that’s all.” 

 

Cristiano looked his camera near the windowsill. It meant he had been working at strange hours. “I will walk you to the station.” 

 

“Walking?” 

 

“It’s like ten minutes. It’s Italy. It’s not as though it’s bustling at 5 in the morning.” 

 

“No. They’re probably just getting home by now.” 

 

Cristiano smiled. “You lived in America for too long. You’ve forgotten what it’s like to be one of us.” 

 

“I lived in Los Angeles for six months,” he protested. 

 

“Like I said, too long. Now put on your coat. It’s foggy out.” 

 

They said goodbye at the train station again. Gareth was catching his flight in Rome. Direct to Oslo. First class. He and Luka would conduct this deal together. He tried to tell himself that the success of a “multimillion dollar deal” was worth more than a few more hours with Cristiano. 

 

“I’ll see you soon. When are you coming again?” 

 

“As soon as I can.” He tried to keep the panic out of his voice. “Look, I--” 

 

The train arrived, wheels squeaking. Someone was shouting. German, Italian, French. English. He squeezed his eyes shut. One, two, three, four-- 

 

“I spoke to my secretary last night. She’s dealt with the building. She’ll call you later with the details. You buy what you need for the place--” He glanced over his shoulder. “I have to leave-- I’m sorry.” And then quietly: “Take care of yourself.” 

 

He thought he heard someone say “I love you” but he didn’t turn around. 

 

+ 

 

The most difficult thing about the distance was that no matter how badly he wanted to reach out through the phone, he could not. His arms were essentially pinned to his sides. His mind could roam all it wanted; his heart could remain in Florence; his fingers could reach out in the darkness. But in the end, he was alone in London, and Cristiano was in Florence, and that was that. No amount of wishing could budge reality. 

 

They skyped when Gareth wasn’t working. They texted. They called. Sometimes the want in Cristiano’s voice made Gareth want to reach and start something, a new kind of desire that could cure them for a little while, but every time they tried, it left Cristiano exhausted and shaken; Gareth feeling as though he had taken advantage of something weakened. 

 

It was a confusing few months. They spoke often. Cristiano had started writing little blurbs for the paper. He was simultaneously selling his photographs to a popular magazine. He was doing well, and he was happy; his heart longed for the city alone. He wanted to trace his fingers over everything that it was. He wanted to know every intricate detail. He was always searching, always hungry for knowledge, for familiarity, for home. But the trouble with Cristiano was that once he was settled-- once he knew that city like a worn book-- he would move on. Once something became his home, he had to leave it. He was a very firm believer in letting go of the things he loved. 

 

But Gareth didn’t want to be let go of. He was not a city to be wandered. A person, not a concept. And people do not like to be loved only to be left behind. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. String Quartet No. 1 in D Major, Op, 11: II. Andante cantabile - Tchaikovsky  
> 2\. Halo - Ane Brun  
> 3\. The Loose Ends Will Make Knots - Stars  
> 4\. Cherry Wine (Live) - Hozier  
> 5\. Oceans - Seafret  
> 6\. Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene (BBC Live Version) - Seafret  
> 7\. What Kind of Man - Florence + The Machine  
> 8\. Don't Wanna Be Your Girl - Wet  
> 9\. The District Sleeps Alone Tonight - The Postal Service  
> 10\. Like Real People Do - Hozier  
> 11\. Fever Dream - Young Summer  
> 12\. High For This - The Weekend  
> 13\. Missing You - Dwntwn  
> 14\. Tourist - RAC  
> 15\. Hurricane - MisterWives  
> 16\. Cough Syrup - Young the Giant  
> 17\. I'm So Sorry - Imagine Dragons  
> 18\. The Worst - Jhene Aiko  
> 19\. When We're Fire - Lo-Fang  
> 20\. Photograph - Ed Sheeran  
> 21\. Bloodstream - Ed Sheeran  
> 22\. Tenerife Sea - Ed Sheeran  
> 23\. Exodus of the Year - Royal Canoe  
> 24\. Hometown Hero - Andy Shauf  
> 25\. Old Pine - Ben Howard  
> 26\. re:stacks - Bon Iver  
> 27\. No Shade in the Shadow of The Cross - Sufjan Stevens  
> 28\. Human (Marian Hill Remix) - Aquilo  
> 29\. heartsigh - Purity Ring  
> 30\. Au revoir mon amour - Dominique A


End file.
